


with the blue mascara on

by heliantheae



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, College, Deaf Clint Barton, F/F, Humor, Secret Identity, Sign Language, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 12:58:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15606795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heliantheae/pseuds/heliantheae
Summary: Kate meets a cute girl at the gym. Kate meets a woman with glowing eyes in an alley. These two things probably aren't related.





	with the blue mascara on

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Driving in Cars With Boys_ by Lana Del Rey.
> 
> There's discussion of an experience with the police where they're kind of victim-blamey, though it's not related to sexual assault and everything works out.

Kate steps into one of the locker room showers with a sigh of relief. Taking the summer off to hang out at an archery range and eat pizza with Clint had seemed like a good idea, but with the way her muscles were protesting after just an hour at the gym she was starting to think maybe it hadn’t been. Whatever. She’d needed a break from the stress of trying to be both a superhero and a college student with a decent GPA. Those two things weren’t quite mutually exclusive, but it was close.

She closes her eyes and tips her head back under the spray. New semester, new Kate. She could do this. She was going to get back in shape. She was going to pass all of her classes. She was not going to get captured by a supervillain three hours before her chemistry midterm this semester. Or get shot during finals week, because that had really sucked. The only thing worse than having to do Shakespeare quote identification was having to do it five minutes after ripping the stitches out of a fresh gunshot wound while running to make it to the exam on time.

She was going to be responsible this semester. No falling behind on homework while tracking a drug smuggling ring. Eating at least one vegetable per three packets of ramen. Going to the gym on a regular basis and not just doing half-assed push ups in her apartment. “I’ve got this,” she says aloud, and shuts the water off.

“Yeah you do,” a woman replies, and it’s then that she realizes there’s someone else in the locker room with her. 

Kate peers out from around the cheap white shower curtain. The woman is wearing ratty gray sweatpants, a lime green sports bra, and she’s applying bright red lipstick in the mirror. She winks when she sees Kate looking at her. Kate squeaks and ducks back behind the curtain to dry off.

“I’m America,” the woman says when Kate emerges. “Sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

“I’m Kate,” Kate replies. “And you’re good. I just didn’t know anyone else was in here. Classes don’t start for a few more days so I figured I’d be alone.”

“Not a freshman then?” America asks. “They don’t move in until this weekend, right?”

“I’m going to be a junior,” Kate says. “And yeah. I’m going to try and avoid campus then. Move-in weekend is such a zoo. What about you?”

“I’m going to be a junior too,” America tells her, “But I just transferred from UCLA.”

“Well,” says Kate. “Definitely avoid campus this weekend, especially if you’re trying to drive anywhere. And Murphy’s on 6th Avenue does two dollar drinks every Friday night and they don’t card. That’s all you really need to know.”

“Not even where my classes are?” America teases.

“Pfft,” Kate replies. “What kind of nerd goes to class? I mean, I do, but I’m a mechanical engineering major and I would totally fail everything if I didn’t.”

America shakes her head. “I could never do engineering. Too much math.”

“It’s not so bad?” Kate tries. “I only cried for the entirety of my differential equations class last semester.”

“I don’t even know what a differential equation is,” America informs her. “And honestly, I don’t want to.”

“I could give you my number in case you ever change your mind,” Kate offers, which amazingly enough isn’t the least smooth she’s ever been.

America grins at her. “I’d rather try out that Murphy’s place,” she says, and hands Kate her phone with the new contact page pulled up.

“That might be more fun,” Kate allows.

\----------

“I might have a date,” Kate announces when she arrives back at the apartment she shares with Clint.

Lucky bounces up to her, tail wagging, but that’s the only response she gets. There aren’t any bodies strewn around, which means Clint probably hasn’t managed to piss off the literal mafia again, but she pulls her switchblade out of her bag and goes further into the apartment just in case he’s found some other kind of trouble. She relaxes when she sees Clint. He had taken his hearing aids out and fallen asleep on the couch, no violent crime involved. She kicks him and signs, _wake up asshole I’m having a crisis_ when his eyes open.

He flips her off, but adds _is it an emergency?_

She shakes her head. _Just my personal life._

 _So an emergency,_ he replies. 

“Fuck you,” she says, making sure her lips are extra easy to read. 

_Is it your daddy issues or your love life?_ Clint asks. 

_Love life_ she signs, and sits down cross-legged on their coffee table. _Maybe._

Lucky comes over to shove his nose in her armpit in a bid for attention while Clint says _I’m going to need coffee for this._

 _You wouldn’t need coffee for a daddy issues talk?_ Kate inquires.

“I’d need alcohol for a daddy issues talk. I always end up talking about my traumatic childhood when you talk about yours and then we both end up crying,” Clint informs her, putting his hearing aids in. 

“There will be no crying involved with this,” Kate says. “Hopefully.”

“Let’s hear it then,” Clint tells her. 

“Okay, so, there’s this girl,” Kate begins.

Clint interrupts immediately. “Oh, God. Is this another situation where you want me to tell you whether she was hitting on you?”

Kate flushes. “I don’t ask you that _that_ often.”

“Clint, I made out with this girl at a party, do you think she’s into girls? Clint, a girl asked me if I wanted to get a drink this weekend, that’s probably just a friend thing, right? Clint, there’s a girl in my chem lab that I think might have been checking out my boobs, but what if she just liked my necklace? Should I take the risk and ask her to get coffee sometime?” Clint mocks in his best approximation of Kate’s voice, which isn’t very good.

“You’re an asshole,” Kate informs him. “And her name is America and she wants to go to Murphy’s this Friday, but she just transferred here and probably doesn’t know anyone so I don’t think it’s a date. Also maybe it is though. Please help me.”

“America, huh?” Clint asks. “You know, if you were feeling patriotic I could have just set you up with Steve.”

“Gross,” Kate says. “He’s like, thirty. Or a hundred or something. Old either way.”

“Ouch,” Clint, who is thirty-six and desperately pretending he’s not, replies. “I think you’re just going to have to feel this one out when you go to Murphy’s. Probably she’s into you though. You’re smart and according to Natasha you have great hair.” 

Kate blinks. “That actually means a lot. Thank you, Clint. I’m sorry I called you an asshole.”

“You are not,” Clint says. “Now, how does Chinese take-out sound? I’m starving.”

\----------

Clint isn’t in the apartment when Kate starts getting ready for her maybe date with America. This is probably by design, because Kate asks questions like whether she should wear mauve or lavender eyeshadow and Clint’s idea of dressing up is wearing a shirt that doesn’t smell like he found it in a keg. “Why do I own so much purple?” Kate asks helplessly. “It’s tacky, right? Or a little on the nose about the whole Hawkeye thing.”

Lucky looks up at her with sad dog eyes, and thumps his tail in an attempt to guilt trip her into rubbing his belly. 

“You’ll get hair on my leggings,” Kate tells him severely. “These leggings make my ass look good and I want to wear them.”

The most manipulative dog on the planet rolls onto his back. His tongue lolls out of his mouth. Kate breaks down and spends five minutes petting him and telling him he’s a good boy. “You know, Clint brushes you every day?” she asks him when she stands back up. “And yet, I am still covered in dog hair. Amazing.”

She ends up wearing lilac high-waisted shorts and a white crop top because there’s no way the leggings will be salvageable even if she can find the lint brush. “My million dollar idea is customizable dog-colored leggings,” Kate tells Lucky, who licks her knee in reply.

“Thank you,” she tells him. “Be good while I’m gone. I don’t know where Clint went but I’ll be home in time to take you for your night-time walk, so don’t worry about it. Also don’t try and eat the couch again, because it will definitely make you sick again.”

Hopefully the alert look on his face means that he learned his lesson about couch eating while vomiting up stuffing in the vet’s office, and she’ll come home to an intact apartment. “I’m going to put peanut butter in your Kong toy just in case,” Kate says, because she doesn’t trust the glint in his big brown eyes.

Forget supervillains, dogs were the real reason she was paranoid. At least bad guys wouldn’t act innocent after chewing your favorite pair of ballet flats into a million soggy pieces. Or wait until they had been thoroughly soaked during bath time before making a bid for freedom and shaking their coat out all over everything. Jesus. The bathroom hadn’t been the same since and there was probably still dog hair stuck in the drain.

\----------

Kate shouldn’t have worried about the purple being tacky, apparently, because she arrives at Murphy’s and immediately spots America, who is wearing a denim jacket with a big American flag on the back and super distracting black booty shorts. “Hey, Kate!” America exclaims, waving.

Kate joins her at the bar, and doesn’t even have time to order a drink before a man with a scruffy beard is looming behind them. “Can I get you ladies a drink?” he asks, and his breath stinks like whiskey.

“No, thank you though,” says Kate, sincerely hoping he leaves them alone without a fuss.

The man does not take the hint, and instead reaches out and puts his hand on the back of her neck. America receives identical treatment. “Come on, sweetheart, there’s enough of me for both of you.” 

“If you don’t get your hand off of me I’m going to break it,” America says.

Kate feels the man’s grip tighten, so she reaches around, grabs his wrist, and uses it as leverage to bend his arm behind his back and smash his face into the bar. “I asked nicely,” Kate tells him. 

The bartender, who had been watching all of this unfold out of the corner of her eye and with a distinct air of exasperation, makes her way over. “Get out of here, Seth. I’m not in the mood to deal with the cops when Kate breaks a bar stool over your head.”

“That was once, Maggie,” Kate says, letting the man up so he can hurry away. “And it was Clint’s fault.”

“Clint is a sweetie and I won’t hear a word against him,” Maggie says loyally, probably because Clint cuts her in on the profits when she lets him hustle pool here. “Your usual, I’m guessing? And for your lady friend?”

“I’ll have what she’s having,” America says.

“I can’t let you do that to yourself,” Maggie tells her. “It’s called a Purple Flip Flop.”

America considers this. “Maybe I’ll have a Manhattan instead.”

Kate does finger guns at the older woman. “You’re the best, Mags.”

“You know it, kid,” Maggie replies, gruff smoker’s voice going a little raspier like it does when she’s secretly pleased. 

Kate turns to America. “So I know it kind of looks like all I do is drink and get in bar fights, but I promise that’s not true.”

“I know,” says America.

“You know?” Kate echoes, caught off guard.

“You talk to yourself in the shower too,” she reminds her. 

Kate says, “Oh, God. I’d almost forgotten about that.”

“It was cute,” America says.

Kate blinks at her for a moment. “Yeah? Well, your face is cute,” she says, and has to immediately battle the urge to thunk her head against the bar.

America takes it in stride though. “I bet you tell all the girls that,” she grins.

“Only if it’s true,” Kate replies, and Maggie saves her from her inability to talk to attractive women by appearing with their drinks.

America is distracted by Kate’s drink, anyway. “That looks like it should be spaceship fuel, not something you put in your body.”

Maggie makes a face that implies agreement. “You traitor,” Kate tells her. “Put these on my tab?”

“Will do,” Maggie replies, and drifts down the bar to attend to someone else.

“It’s just vodka and some juice,” Kate tells America, looking back down at her drink. “I’ve been trying to talk Maggie into edible glitter to make it look cooler, but she’s not going for it.”

“I don’t think food should be that color,” America says. 

“I think everything should be this color,” Kate returns. “Purple is the best color.”

“Well,” America says thoughtfully. “You do look good in it.”

\----------

“It was definitely a date,” Kate tells the apartment when she returns, slightly tipsy and with plans to get brunch with America on Sunday.

Clint isn’t back yet, but Lucky seems excited by the news and by her return. Kate checks to make sure the couch is intact, and then says, “Good boy! I knew you could do it,” because it is, thank God. “Ready for your walk?”

Lucky, predictably, goes ballistic at the mention of a walk. “Alright, alright,” Kate tells him. “Let me put a hoodie on. It got kind of chilly out.”

They take the elevator to the ground floor, and walk out into the first hint of fall. Kate loves being in the city at night. The orange glow of the street lights make everything look like she’s stepped sideways into an alternate reality, but the city that never sleeps lacks the unnerving empty stillness nighttime other places possesses. It’s the perfect combination of familiarity and unreality. 

Lucky sniffs a trash can and then pees on it, which drags Kate out of her thoughts. It’s hard to romanticize things when faced with the fact she’s going to have to pick up dog poop soon. They turn down a side street, and Kate isn’t so out of practice that she doesn’t recognize the sound of footsteps rushing up behind her. She drops Lucky’s leash and dodges to the side at the last second, avoiding a man’s attempt to grab her by the hair.

It’s Seth, the guy from the bar. “Oh, Christ,” Kate says, and updates that to, “Oh, fucking Christ,” when she sees he has a knife. 

She signs _don’t engage_ at Lucky, who is actually trained for combat situations even if usually he acts like a petulant lapdog. He listens, and slinks into the shadows.

Seth opens his mouth, but Kate cuts him off. “Can we skip the sexism and racism and go right to the part where I knock you out and call the cops?”

“Bitch,” Seth spits, and not for the first time Kate wishes she could just pull a Natasha and murder everyone that irritated her.

Oh, but it wasn’t fair to use your skills against civilians. Bullshit. Civilians were assholes. She seriously wondered why there weren’t more supervillains motivated by misanthropy. Why conquer the world when you could just never have to deal with a middle-aged man yelling at a barista because he’d wanted the whip cream on his drink stirred in for him ever again?

But, as Kate frequently reminds herself, supervillains don’t care about assholes that follow girls home from bars. She’s very aware that not everyone is lucky enough to have her background, and that situations like these can quickly turn into violent crimes even when someone does have self-defense training. So that’s why she’s not a supervillain, even if people are usually pretty terrible. She has the ability and, therefore, the obligation to help people, so she will.

Kate has her fists up and is ready for whenever Seth decides to rush her, but before that can happen some sort of portal opens up and a woman clad in what appears to be a blue tracksuit flies through, and hangs there in the air. She looks kind of ridiculous, given the fact that she also has a baseball cap on and a red bandana covering her face. Her eyes are glowing though, and she whacks Seth on the head. He crumples. “Huh,” says Kate. “This is new.”

The woman continues to hover. “Not that that wasn’t great and all,” Kate tells her, “But I’m Hawkeye. One of the Hawkeyes. I could have taken care of that.”

More passive-aggressive floating. “I’m okay,” Kate promises. “Unless you’re like, also a bad guy. That would really kill my buzz and I’d be crabby.”

“I’m going to call the cops,” Kate continues when she receives no response. “So they can come and deal with this asshole. Probably you don’t want to be around for that. They would probably have a lot of questions about the whole flying and glowing eyes thing. Also the portal. New Yorkers are really not into portals after that whole thing in Manhattan a few years ago.”

The flying woman blinks at her, and zips back through her portal, which closes behind her. “Neat,” Kate says, and gestures for Lucky to come out of hiding while fumbling for her phone.

\----------

It takes Kate three hours to escape from the clutches of the NYPD, who ask her a lot of questions about how much she’d had to drink and what, exactly, she had said to Seth that might have antagonized him. They shake their heads and say that, because he hadn’t hurt her, there wasn’t anything they could do and she’d be lucky if he didn’t press assault charges.

Kate is back to debating the merits of supervillainy, especially after the lecture she’d gotten about respecting uniformed officers when she’d lost her temper and asked, “So, what, I should have let him stab me a couple of times so you could could charge him? That’s bullshit.”

She stalks home, trailed by a content Lucky. He’d gotten treats from all of the K9 officers and then napped while she was interrogated, once again living up to his name. 

No one bothers her even though it’s almost three in the morning, which she almost regrets. Punching someone in the face would probably make her feel better.

Clint is back when she arrives at the apartment, as is Natasha. “Hey, Kate,” Clint says, voice a little muffled from under a pile of ice packs.

“You’re in a mood,” Natasha, who is covered in blood and grime but still managing to look amazing, remarks.

“Ugh,” says Kate, and releases Lucky so he can go sniff Clint. “What happened to you guys?”

“Sentient lawnmowers,” Clint tells her. “I hate the fucking suburbs. Don’t change the subject though. Did your date not go well?”

“The date was fantastic. America is amazing and we’re getting brunch on Sunday,” Kate says. “Some asshole followed me home from the bar and attacked me in an alley, so I had to deal with the cops.”

Clint makes what’s either a sympathetic noise or a groan of pain because he tried to move his face. Natasha frowns minutely. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, well,” says Kate. “I’d been drinking and am I sure I didn’t antagonize him? What was I doing out alone that late at night? Sorry, sweetheart, there’s no surveillance footage so we can’t prove he threatening you with a knife. You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t press charges.”

“Ah,” Natasha says. “You should have just killed him and gotten rid of the body. Less trouble.”

“That’s not even the worst part,” Kate tells her. “Some flying lady showed up, knocked him out, and left so I didn’t even get to beat the satisfaction of doing it myself.”

“Glowing eyes?” Clint asks.

“Yeah,” says Kate. “Who is she?”

Clint shrugs. “Tony just mentioned there were some weird energy readings around sightings of a woman matching that description. It seems like she just stops small-time crimes and disappears.”

“Probably not a threat, but we’re tracking her just to make sure,” Natasha says. “Do you mind writing me a report of what happened to add to the file we have on her?”

“Sure thing,” says Kate. “I can babysit Clint and do that if you want to shower and change.”

“Medical doesn’t think he has a concussion, but we’re supposed to keep an eye on him overnight just in case,” Natasha informs her, already moving toward the bathroom and peeling out of her uniform. “Thank you. I feel disgusting and I have grass clippings in unmentionable places.”

Kate sighs, “I wish I looked that good with grass in my underwear,” after the bathroom door closes and goes to make coffee and grab her laptop.

—————

“Oof,” says Kate, finding herself staring at the ceiling of the boxing gym.

It appears to be spinning, and then is partially obscured by America’s face. “Are you okay?” she asks. “I didn’t mean to hit you that hard.”

“I’m good,” Kate assures her. “Just maybe going to stay down here for a bit. I thought you said you didn’t know how to box?”

“I don’t,” America says, helping her sit up.

“You’re not making me feel any better,” Kate informs her, and promptly lists sideways. “I’m supposed to be good at this.”

“I’m going to take you home,” America says. “Or maybe to the ER. Do you want to go to the hospital?”

“Does anyone ever?” Kate replies. “It’s just a concussion. I’ll be fine.”

“A concussion? Oh, God. Those can be really serious. I’m the worst girlfriend,” America says, guiding Kate into the locker room to grab their stuff. “We’re going to the hospital.”

“I dated a girl freshman year that broke up with me over text after sending me a numbered list of all of my flaws,” Kate tells her. “You’re like, so far from being the worst girlfriend.”

The exasperated ER doctor is, unfortunately, one Kate has seen before. “Again, Miss Bishop?” she asks. “What did you do this time?”

“Boxing accident,” Kate mumbles, frowning as Dr. Solis shines a light in her eyes.

“Well, that’s not the stupidest thing you’ve said,” Dr. Solis says, turning to America and adding, “One time she fell out of a tree trying to rescue a kitten. Got a concussion and needed a rabies shot.”

“Isn’t telling my girlfriend embarrassing stories against doctor-patient confidentiality?” Kate wants to know.

“There’s nothing confidential about being a dumbass,” Dr. Solis says tartly, and then instructs America, “Wake her up every few hours if she sleeps and limit her activity. Don’t let her take NSAID pain-relievers, because those increase the risk of bleeding. Tylenol is fine for the headache though.”

“Alright,” says America. “Come on, Kate. Let’s go.”

“Bring her back if she starts throwing up,” Dr. Solis says, and ushers them back out into the waiting room.

“I’m so sorry, Kate,” America says after they find seats on the subway. “I feel awful. I completely understand if you don’t want to see me again after this.”

Kate frowns at her, and attempts to process this through the intense headache she has. “What?”

“I gave you a concussion,” says America.

“I know,” Kate tells her, confused. “My head is killing me.”

This is apparently the wrong thing to say, because America looks even more distressed than before. “I’m sorry,” she repeats. “I didn’t mean to hit you that hard.”

“Hitting people hard is like, the whole point of boxing,” Kate says. “And this isn’t even the first concussion I’ve had this year. Don’t worry about it.”

America ignores her, and says, “We should break up. I’m dangerous to be around. What if I hurt you again?”

“Jesus Christ,” says Kate, because what the fuck is her life. “I know we’ve only been together like a month, but I really like you, and I’m not angry with you or worried about you hurting me. Like, I’ll obviously respect your decision if you still want to leave, but I think we’re really good together and I don’t want something minor like this to mess that up.”

“But I hurt you,” America says quietly. 

Kate tries to do the math on how many milligrams of acetaminophen she’s taken, fails, and takes more anyway. “Can we have this conversation when my brain is like, normal angry instead of concussion angry?” Kate asks.

America says, “Fine,” and abandons her to Clint’s tender mercies at the first opportunity. 

Clint, predictably, thinks the entire situation is hilarious once Kate feels well enough to explain it to him. Even Natasha, who has a grand total of three facial expressions when she’s not pretending to be someone else, is doing the one where the side of her mouth curves up a little. Kate’s known her for years now, and is fully aware this means she’s laughing her ass off. 

“I’ve had lovers show less remorse for shooting me,” Natasha says, and pulls up her shirt a little to display the scar on her lower stomach that proves it. 

“Did you tell her about the whole Hawkeye thing?” Clint wants to know. “Would that make her feel better, do you think?”

“You two are the least helpful human beings on the planet,” Kate informs them, just in case they don’t already know.

\-----------

Kate is in a towering temper, because America has been ignoring her texts since the concussion incident and also because her face is currently two inches from Clint’s boots and they’re lost in the air vents of a storage facility that may or may not be home to a drug smuggling operation.

“I’m going to kill you when we get out of here,” she hisses at Clint. 

“Shh,” he hisses back.

They keep crawling, and Kate thinks they might actually be making some progress, but then the ceiling beneath them collapses and they fall directly onto what must be at least three hundred kilograms of cocaine. The two men guarding the cocaine are understandably surprised, but not to the point that they don’t reach for their guns. Kate shoots one and Clint takes out the other. 

“Ugh,” Clint wrinkles his nose as he watches Kate tug her arrow back out of the man’s neck. “Do you have to do that?”

“I like the fletching on these,” Kate protests. “And I’m still salty about my last run-in with the cops. I don’t want to be involved if we end up calling them in.”

Clint makes a face, but removes his arrow from the guard he’d shot’s neck. “This is going in your quiver, not mine,” he says.

They take out a dozen more guys while they secure the facility and find a storage container full of automatic weapons, but it all seems pretty standard. Of course, the moment Kate thinks that to herself an alarm starts to blare and the lights go out, plunging them into perfect blackness. “Motherfucker,” says Clint.

Kate crouches and feels around behind her where they’d just been. There’s a thin strand of something that had been running across the doorway. “Fuck,” she says. “We tripped something.”

Clint grabs her arm, and together the crash blindly in what Kate sincerely hopes is the direction of the exit. Someone grabs her from behind, and Kate experiences the uniquely unpleasant sensation of being liquified and poured through a PVC pipe before she finds herself standing next to Clint about three hundred yards from the storage facility. It promptly explodes, and Kate turns to run only to find herself face-to-face with the lady with the glowing eyes. “Holy shit,” Kate says, and the woman lifts her and Clint up into the air, out of the way of flying debris. 

Kate ends up slung over her shoulder and the woman is holding Clint by the straps on his uniform like he doesn’t weigh anything. “Hey,” Kate shouts over the wind as the woman flies away from the facility. “Not that it wasn’t like, super cool of you to save us from being blown up, but would you mind putting us down?”

Nothing from the woman, so Kate starts to wiggle despite the fact that wow, they are really high up, aren’t they? _What the fuck are you doing?_ Clint signs, and makes the gesture that means the explosion wrecked his hearing aids. 

“Don’t make me drop you,” the woman says.

“Holy shit, holy shit,” Kate says, because she recognizes that voice. “America?”

“It’s Miss America when I’m in uniform,” America tells her. 

“You can fucking fly?” Kate asks. “Holy shit.”

America says, “We need to talk,” and for once, Kate’s not sure that’s a bad thing. 

_You’re not going to believe this,_ she signs at Clint when she gets his attention. _Holy shit._


End file.
